


That Which They Defend

by violentdarlings



Series: To The Morning Through The Shadows [2]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: BAMF Tauriel, Canonical Character Death, Epic Bromance, F/M, Fellowship of the Ring, Gen, it can be bromance if one of them is a girl
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-01
Updated: 2015-11-04
Packaged: 2018-04-29 08:46:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5122085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violentdarlings/pseuds/violentdarlings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Follows the adventures of Tauriel during the War of the Ring and the closing of the Third Age.</p><p>A sequel to 'To The Morning Through The Shadows'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Thranduil, Tauriel, and Amareth I

**Author's Note:**

> I promised my lovely readers a sequel to 'To the Morning' back in March. So, I'm a little behind, but we got there in the end...

“I’m going,” Tauriel tells him, “and that’s that. You can stay here in Mirkwood and pout, if that is your wish. But there is to be a war, a war the likes of which has not been seen for an age, and I’ll be damned if I stay behind.”

Thranduil presses his fingertips to his skull in a vain attempt to halt the oncoming headache. He cannot settle. Her chambers are larger than the humble appointments she had kept in previous years, but Thranduil still feels like the walls are closing in on him. “Do as you wish,” he informs her. “But if I _may_ –”

“Sarcastic, mocking king,” Tauriel mutters rebelliously. Thranduil studiously ignores her.

“– I would remind you that you have responsibilities here. Who will fulfil your duties?”

“You could find another deputy guard captain at a moment’s notice,” Tauriel replies dismissively, tossing her braided red hair over her shoulder and fixing him with an irate glare Thranduil is reasonably sure she learned from him. “You are prevaricating.”

“And you are remiss, if you believe I will allow you to go off to war and stay behind,” Thranduil retorts, fixing his gaze firmly on his boots. Even after half a century together, he still finds no comfort in speaking of matters of the heart. Especially to Tauriel, her eyes full of light and recrimination. But oh, he has seen so many wars. “If you go, then I must go too. There is no other way around it.” He hears her sigh, like wind through the trees of his kingdom.

“You cannot,” Tauriel says gently, tilting his head up until she can meet his eyes with her own. “I need you to stay here. Someone must look after Amareth.”

“Me?” Thranduil asks in disbelief. Tauriel huffs.

“Who else? Who else is to her as you are?” Thranduil manages not to growl, but it’s a close thing.

“Eru, Tauriel, you know we must not speak of that,” he says through gritted teeth. “There are eyes and ears everywhere.”

“Including little ones,” Tauriel snaps, and sure enough, when Thranduil turns, there is a pair of wide green eyes peeping around a column. “Come here, Amareth,” Tauriel says, and shyly the child comes forward. She has the look of her mother, the green eyes and delicate features, but the silvery-gold fall of her hair is all his, rare enough that even now, ten years after her birth, Amareth still receives curious and suspicious looks from the inhabitants of his kingdom. “Say hello to the king,” Tauriel encourages, lifting her daughter into her arms, and Thranduil manages a faint smile.

“Amareth,” he acknowledges, and the child looks up.

“Sire,” she says in her little voice, for a moment the very picture of her mother. Amareth turns her head to look at her mother. “Are you going away again, Naneth?” she asks. Tauriel’s mouth twists, and only now does Thranduil sense the battle within her. She does not want to leave her child any more than Thranduil wants Tauriel to leave his forests, but there is a higher calling she must obey.

“Just for a little while,” Thranduil says, and very deliberately holds out his arms until Tauriel warily transfers Amareth into his embrace. The child is stiff in his arms, uncomfortable being held by someone who is almost a stranger, but Thranduil ignores that for now. That, and the stab of pain in his heart, that his child hardly knows him at all. “We will have to muddle along, you and I, while your Naneth is gone.”

Later, Tauriel turns over in his loose embrace, bringing their faces close together. “I do not like this,” she admits. “I never thought to have children, but this is not the life I wanted for Amareth, to lose me as I lost my mother and father.” Thranduil shudders, an entirely involuntary motion, and tries to pass it off as a shiver of cold. Yet when he meets Tauriel’s eyes, he knows she is not deceived. It has been a long time since he could fool her.

“You will not be lost,” he says instead. “I will be most irked with you if you should happen to get yourself killed.” There is so much more he wants to say, how she brought light back into his world, how she honoured his fallen wife and eased the rictus of grief that had paralysed him for so long. Yet he does not know how to find the words.

“I see,” Tauriel replies flippantly, but she tightens her grip on his waist. “Then I must be careful, to avoid raising the wrath of my king and liege. That would be the very last thing I would want.”

“Tease,” he admonishes lightly. And then, as quietly as the gentle fall of rain outside: “You know I would be desolate if you were harmed.”

“I know,” she replies, just as softly. “But you cannot lock yourself away from the world this time. If I am slain, then you must raise Amareth. There is no one else.”

“You should inquire of my son as to the sort of single father I make, Tauriel,” Thranduil snips. Tauriel stills in his arms, so motionless as to appear not even breathing.

“You will not do that to my daughter,” she says softly, but oh, the weight behind it. “Not to your daughter.”

Thranduil does not think he could bear to fail again.

“When will you leave for Imladris?” he asks instead, and the tension slowly melts out of Tauriel.

“In three days,” she replies. “That will give me adequate time to prepare, and time enough to prepare Amareth.”

“Truly?” Thranduil asks. “You are a fool if you perceive her regard for you to be so slight.” Tauriel shrugs and turns over again, but Thranduil is acutely aware she does it only to hide her face.

“It is to prepare me as much as her,” she replies lightly, but Thranduil can hear the tears in her voice. “It must be three days. Any longer and I’ll never go.”


	2. Fellowship I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tauriel arrives in Imladris.

Tauriel rides into the courtyard and almost instantly notices the difference in Imladris. The place is busier, humming with life in a way it has not in years beyond counting. Even when she visited when Estel was young, the house of Elrond had a deep serenity, one that could not be fractured by orc raids or the antics of Elrohir and Elladan.

She notices more differences when she is shown into what, in Thranduil’s halls, would have been the throne room. Instead, in the home of the infinitely more modest Elrond, the room is simply furnished, laid out with a vast table and many chairs, with one chair only slightly higher than the rest.

Tauriel has been the lover of a king for decades, but even before that, Thranduil had trained her in the icy courtesy of the dignitary. It galls her somewhat, to speak to Lord Elrond as though she is lower than him. Not because she thinks she is his better, but because they have corresponded frequently and very cordially over the years, ever since Tauriel had been sent to Imladris on a diplomatic mission in her fourth century. She is certain, to this day, that it had been a test of Thranduil’s, to see whether her parents’ wanderlust had been echoed in her flesh. She had returned, not because she did not feel the same pull towards the woods and the wild, but because she had given her word, and duty was stronger than desire.

At dinner Tauriel sits in a corner and observes the multitude of races around her. It gives her something like hope, that perhaps the doom she feels coming can be outweighed by the courage and resilience of all of Middle-earth united. Elves, Men, Hobbits, Dwarves – Dwarrow, she corrects herself absent-mindedly, for a moment lost in the past, remembering Kíli with the sting in her breast that has never quite gone away.

Gimli son of Glóin has the look of his father, and a certain wintry stubbornness about his eyes that very much suggests the line of Durin. She cannot recall that she ever spoke to Glóin, although from the way the old dwarf’s eyes follow her, she suspects they still speak beneath the Mountain of the elf maid who fell in love with a king’s nephew.

Legolas has not noticed her yet. He is sitting with a tall man with a regal sort of bearing underneath the stubble and the weariness prematurely lining his face. Noticing her gaze, the man lifts a cup to her in mute salute, and jabs an elbow none too gently in his companion’s ribs to alert him to her presence. Tauriel swallows. She does not know how Legolas will react to her presence. They have never spoken of the past, of his previous regard for her, or her current affiliation with his father. She suspects that he knows, or has guessed, from the inquiring way his eyes follow her daughter on the rare occasions the king’s son returns to the Greenwood.

He stands and begins to walk towards her, and automatically Tauriel rises. It would be churlish to remain seated when the king’s son is on his feet. It takes immense will to not drop to her knees, as she would have done and had done for centuries for his father. Here, in the more informal halls of Elrond, they would not understand. Nor would Legolas, who has never had to bow to anyone, and still occasionally gets a hurt glimmer in his eyes whenever she addresses him as ‘my lord’.

It is not for her to call him _mellon_ anymore.

“Did my father send you?” Legolas asks abruptly. Tauriel dips her head, and must content herself with that.

“Long has it been since your father could order me hither and hence,” she retorts. “I came for the council.”

Legolas has never been a successful liar. He has always been too honest for the intrigues of Thranduil’s court. “What council?” he asks, his eyes shifting sideways just a touch. “I know of no such.”

“Of course not,” Tauriel replies, and without missing a beat, says, “This cannot be young Estel, surely.” Aragorn son of Arathorn has attempted to sneak up on her, and rather succeeded, almost. Not for nothing has the heir to Gondor spent several decades amongst the Dúnedain, for all he does not yet look middle-aged.

“Not so young anymore, my lady,” he replies, recovering well. Tauriel allows herself a smile.

“Your skills have advanced,” she informs him, and is gratified to see faint amusement soften the stern face. “Still. There is always room for improvement.”

“Tauriel,” Legolas says, and she is surprised to see how serious he is. “Why are you here?” For a moment she is truly stunned. Does he not see?

“As if you would be allowed to go off to war unaided,” she says, when what she truly means is _, I could not let my friend go alone._ “You are the king’s son _.” You are dear to me._ “I am not here to usurp your position as your father’s representative.” _Two bows are better than one._ “I am here to see that justice is done. That is all.” _Idiot_.

“I am not going to war, Tauriel,” Legolas snaps, for a moment looking very like his father. Tauriel’s breath catches in her throat. Suddenly, she misses them both so much she cannot stand it.

“You smell the doom rising on the wind as well as I,” she replies just as sharply as Legolas, to cover the pain of loss in her chest for Amareth, for Thranduil. For more who will be lost, before this war ends. “Be blind to it if you will. We have been fighting for many years, Legolas, but we have only ever been able to treat the symptoms, not the cause. Perhaps this council will change that.” Tauriel stops, well aware she is flushed, and that the entire dining hall has stopped eating and talking to stare at them. She turns on her heel, her face burning, and in her consternation she misses Elrond’s considering stare.

 

“You’ve kept me waiting,” Tauriel snaps, when Legolas comes through the door to the chambers she has been granted as a guest of Elrond’s. That courtesy aside, it had not extended to an invitation to the secret council – which, in Tauriel’s opinion, is one of the worst kept secrets in living memory. Every inhabitant of Imladris knew of it, although they would not tell Tauriel the location.

She tries to will herself to not be too hard on Legolas. None of this is his doing, and he is looking as though the last few hours have aged him in the only place elves ever show their years: his eyes.

“My apologies,” Legolas says heavily. “I could not leave until now.”

“Well?” she demands. “What have they decided?”

“The Ring cannot stay here,” Legolas replies, with the air of someone repeating something heard over and over again. “There is no place in Middle-earth where it can be shielded from Sauron. It must be taken to Orodruin, cast back into the fires from whence it was made, and be destroyed.”

It is a bold plan. It is also insane, but Tauriel is a veteran of a thousand battles, and she does not let fear rule her. “I see,” she says. “When do we leave?” Legolas starts at that.

“We?” he asks. “Tauriel. No. It has been decided. Nine companions will take the Ring to Mordor.”

“So I will be one of them,” Tauriel replies, unfazed. “I do not see the issue.” Legolas cannot meet her eyes.

“You were… considered,” he says, examining his boots. Tauriel narrows her eyes at him, but he does not see. “You are a warrior of much renown, and you have some skill as a healer. I argued, with Lord Elrond. I said you would be an asset to the Company. But…”

“But what?” Tauriel questions, when her prince does not continue. “Out with it, Legolas. It cannot be so terrible.”

“Lord Elrond decided Meriadoc and Peregrin should accompany us instead.” The words are said in a whisper, as if by lowering his voice, Legolas could soften the blow. For a moment, Tauriel cannot believe her ears, and she is almost amused.

“Surely, you jest,” she says, but her smile fades when her prince looks up at her, just once, his eyes full of misery. “Is he mad?” she says in raw incredulity. “I do not doubt the strength of their hearts, but between the two of them, there is not a single day of combat experience. Not an hour. Does he intend to send them to their deaths?” She has gone too far. Legolas’s spine straightens. He does not like it implied that he cannot protect his companions. She should have remembered that.

“Tauriel.” His voice flicks out like a whip; more and more, of late, she is seeing Thranduil in his son. “Nine companions will take the Ring to Mordor. But not a one of them will be you.” His shoulders are set, his chin down, as though bracing himself for the maelstrom of disagreement to come. She does not disappoint him.

Tauriel argues with him for a long time, long enough for Legolas to tire of it and pull rank on her. Once, she might have minded, but not now. Instead she waits for him to leave and begins to systematically pack everything one would need for a several months long journey to Mordor.

 

She sets out the day before the Fellowship is due to leave, following several heated arguments with Legolas about the wisdom of travelling by herself the long distance home. This leads to several archery contests to prove her skill, wrestling with the Men, and a bout watched by half of Imladris w she fends off the attacks of Elrohir and Elladan simultaneously. Legolas is appeased.

Fondly Tauriel farewells Legolas, Elrond, Aragorn, and the hobbits, both the young ones and dear Bilbo. She exchanges a mutually terse nod with Gimli and stops to compliment the young lord of Gondor on his fine horn. Only Mithrandir does she avoid. Those ancient eyes can see too much, and well does she recall the awkward weeks they spent together seeking the bones of Thranduil’s queen. She has a sneaking feeling that Mithrandir _knows_.

In full view of her prince and the heir to Gondor, she sets out along the path to return her to the Greenwood. But night turns into day, and she sets up camp, and waits.

She is quiet and quick, and there are nine of them. Ten, if she counts Bill the pony. Aragorn, Legolas and Mithrandir are accustomed to stealth, Boromir of Gondor to a lesser extent, but the rest are hopeless. Gimli moves as heavily as a rock slide in the Mountain, and the hobbits chatter like children. Well. Merry and Pippin do. The Ring-bearer is often silent, his brow troubled, for all his face is as smooth as a sapling. His gardener is not much one for words – unless they rhyme, of course.

Tauriel tracks them for a week before she is discovered. Legolas finds her checking one of her snares, to see if anything tasty has wandered into her trap. He marches her into the Company’s campsite, arms pinned by her sides, as if she were some common criminal. She cannot find it in her to be offended, though. She knows that she has injured his pride by tracking and evading him so easily for a week. And really, she could almost laugh at the looks on their faces. Even Aragorn cannot hide his surprise.

What follows is one of the most infuriating conversations she has ever been forced to take part in.

“Turn back,” Legolas implores. “You are not part of this.”

“We are all part of this,” Tauriel retorts, lightning fast. “Are we not part of this world, Legolas?” The words echoing up from the past make him look away for a moment. It may be a trick of the light, but for a moment she imagines that what she sees in his face is shame.

“This will be a dangerous path, milady,” warns Boromir. “It may be difficult for you to… err…”

“Keep up?” Tauriel demands. “I might remind you, son of Denethor, that I was killing orcs well before your grandfather was born. Kindly do not worry yourself on my account. I can assure you, I can keep up.”

Next came Aragorn. “Of course you can keep up,” he says, and Tauriel has a sudden glimpse of the king he might someday become, all smoothness and charm. She thinks she prefers the unkempt Ranger. “But you have a family. A child. None of us here are married with children. We have less to lose.”

“I am not married, Aragorn,” Tauriel said, lifting her chin. “My daughter is in capable hands. The young hobbits have families. Boromir a father and brother. I know the Elven king would be inconsolable to lose his son – don’t scowl so, Legolas. Is your sacrifice more appropriate than mine, your loved ones’ grief easier to bear, because you are all male and I am not?” Tauriel does not want to admit to herself that Aragorn has struck a nerve. She eyes each of them. “Well, who’s next? Mithrandir?”

“These companions were handpicked by Lord Elrond,” the wizard comments in his measured voice. “Do you think yourself wiser than he?” Tauriel winces inwardly.

“No,” she replies, “but neither do I consider myself foolhardy, for daring to protect what is mine. If the Ring is not destroyed then darkness will cover this earth. Sauron will not tolerate any free people to live. What future is there for anyone’s child, under the gaze of such unrelenting evil? I am not a hero, nor the blood of kings, nor will my name be remembered down the eons. But I will defend this company to my last breath.”

For a moment there is silence. The hobbits all look rather impressed, and shake their heads when Aragorn gestures for them to speak. The Ring-bearer nods.

“Gimli?” asks Aragorn helplessly. Tauriel locks gazes with the dwarf. They regard each other for a long moment.

“She’s a good fighter,” grunts Gimli.

And that had been the end of that.


	3. Fellowship II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Training, sparring, and Caradhras.

Tauriel feels better, now that she is (unofficially) part of the company. That evening she lays her bedroll a little away from the rest, not so far as to be a target for passing predators, but not so close to the males that they will feel threatened. Delicate creatures, she smiles to herself, and takes second watch when Aragorn shakes her awake in the wee hours. She sits and looks up at the stars, remembering the night she had spent sitting beside Kíli in the dungeon, bars between them not enough to stop the communion of their hearts. And how the gems of the queen’s necklace had glittered just as brightly as those stars, as the tears falling down her king’s face like rain, when her heart had ached so much for him that it felt as though it would rend her in two.

“What is the true reason you came on this quest?” asks a quiet voice. Tauriel turns her head to see the Ring-bearer peering at her with that curious light of knowledge in his bright eyes.

“I have many reasons,” she says lightly. “Perhaps I just hunger for glory.” Frodo scoffs.

“I am not so easily deceived.” In the flickering light of the banked fire, Tauriel studies him.

“No, you are not, are you?” she says, almost to herself. “The truth, then. I could not allow him to lose the last thing he has of her in this world. I would give my life, for that.” Tauriel looks up at the stars, at the moon that Kíli once saw wreathed in flame, and does not let her eyes spill over.

When she looks back, the Ring-bearer has rolled onto his other side. Whether in sleep or to give her a moment’s dignity, she cannot know. But she is grateful all the same.

 

“Up, lads!” Tauriel says sharply, leaning over the four tiny bedrolls containing the hobbits.

“Whassamatter?” Meriadoc slurs groggily.

“Is it orcs?” Frodo inquires.

“Is it breakfast?” Peregrin mumbles.

Samwise does not stir.

“If I was an orc, you’d be dead,” Tauriel murmurs to the four of them. “If Mithrandir, the prince, the dwarf and the Men were all slaughtered in their sleep, you’d be dead. Now, up. We’re going to train.”

“Train?” asks Samwise sleepily. Tauriel turns away, fighting a smile.

“Meet me by the big oak tree, ten minutes. Bring your swords.”

She has to give them credit. Within the specified time frame, all four heavy-eyed hobbits are assembled in a ragged line in front of her. “Swords,” Tauriel demands, and holds out her arms. Their swords are soon piled on the ground behind her. “I have made you practise swords,” she says, presenting them each with a wooden practise sword. “I have been training beginners since before you were born. You will all learn to fight.”

“But it’s still dark!” Peregrin complains. Tauriel gives them her best wolfish grin.

“Well spotted, Master Took. You will train before dawn and before bed, and whenever else you can squeeze it in. You will train until you are bruised and sore and curse my name. Now. We begin with your feet.”

 

Tauriel trudges them back into camp just as Legolas, the earliest riser of the Company, is beginning to stir. Seeing the grin on her face, her prince narrows his eyes. “What is it you are so pleased about, Tauriel?” He looks past her to the hobbits. Frodo is smiling, Samwise has a bruise already forming on his cheek, and Merry and Pippin (as they have given her permission to call them) are whispering to one another.

“It is nothing, Legolas,” Tauriel says breezily. “Now, lads, shall we start breakfast?”

As the Company makes its slow way towards Hollin, Tauriel continues the dawn and dusk training sessions for her young recruits. Gimli smirks whenever she lines them up in pairs of two to practise attack and defence, Aragorn and Mithrandir smile fondly. Legolas scowls and try as she might, Tauriel cannot decipher the riddle of his frustration. Boromir, to her surprise, is the most supportive, offering to train the lads once in a while to give her a rest. She had underestimated the Man of Gondor. He is less like his father than first impressions were to be believed.

Occasionally, if the hobbits become discouraged, she and Boromir will have a quick bout to bolster their spirits. It is something of a revelation, how different their fighting styles are. Tauriel is quick and lithe and can dart out of the way of an oncoming sword, but there is a heaviness behind Boromir’s blows that has Tauriel shaking out her arms after every bout.

One early morning, while the hobbits are practising, Gimli stomps over to her and raises his axe. It is an invitation, seemingly, and she doesn’t scold the hobbits when they stop what they are doing to watch. Tauriel holds the dwarf’s gaze for a moment, and then nods. She is aware of the Fellowship subtly moving to get a better view, and unsheathes her twin swords. She eyes the axe in question. It is solid and well-made as befitting Dwarven craftsmanship, and Gimli is heavily muscled. One blow, and she would be a twitching lump of meat on the floor. Not that she thinks Gimli would kill her, of course, but accidents happen. She’ll be better off avoiding his axe entirely. A shiver runs through her. It’s been too long since she’s fought with live steel without truly meaning to kill her sparring partner. Not since she last practised with Thranduil, and if she is honest, she does not have a snowball’s chance in Mordor of defeating him.

“Begin,” Aragorn says, and Tauriel is pulled rather fast from her thoughts. She dances back just as the axe hits the earth where she’d been standing. She balances on the balls of her feet, cat quick, and weaves to the side and down, the axe humming as it moves through the air.

What follows is the most intense fight Tauriel can recall in a decade. Gimli is almost two feet shorter than her, but he has the iron strength common to his people, and before long she is sweating. It ends in a draw, when she has tripped him to the ground and thrown herself over him with one of her swords snaking up to touch his throat. It would seem the victory is hers, but she looks down to see one of his throwing axes pressed against her belly, where the sharpness and heaviness of the steel could empty her intestines onto the ground. She offers him a hand up, and he takes it.

There is a new respect in his eyes, after that.

They reach Hollin the next day. When they stop for lunch, Pippin and Merry surprise her by asking if they can practise. Tauriel smiles, and sends them over to Boromir to try what they’ve learned with their real swords. The clink of the metal, the higher voices of the hobbits in counterpoint to Boromir’s deeper one, and the sun on her face… Tauriel turns her face up to the sky and for once does not worry about what the future may bring.

Somewhere nearby Gimli is talking of Khazad-dûm. Tauriel bites her lip and does not say what she has heard, that it has been five years since Balin sent word back to the Mountain. That orcs and goblins had been seen emerging from Moria under the cover of darkness, to raid and pillage the surrounding lands. She is sure she does not know anything that Mithrandir is not aware of already. Instead, she watches with a smile as Merry and Pippin tackle Boromir to the ground, and then with laughter as Aragorn is brought down in his attempt to assist his fellow Man.

“Not the most conventional way, I grant you, boys, but it get the job done,” she chuckles, but is distracted by Legolas, his eyes fixed on the horizon. She sees what he sees, a black fluttering shape moving rapidly towards them. For one ghastly moment, she is reminded of the war bats bred by Azog to make his war upon the Mountain, but her eyes sharpen, refocus. They are no bats. They are birds.

“Spies of Saruman,” Gandalf pronounces grimly, once the Crebain have cleared and the Company has begun to emerge from their hiding places. “The passage south is being watched. We must take the pass of Caradhras.”

 

Caradhras is cold, and icy, and Tauriel does not approve. Much like Legolas, she can walk over the snow rather than being forced to wade through it, but she cannot do so and bear a hobbit. So the wee ones are lashed to the Men, and Tauriel’s heart is sorrowful at their wind-chapped little faces, the chatter of their teeth. Summer children, who have never known true cold. Still, the Men are strong and Gandalf has led them true so far. Tauriel begins to believe they might make it, until the ice starts to fall.

Boromir argues for Gondor. Tauriel sees the sense in that, even as she has no love for the thought of the Ring of Power so close to the Steward. She would never say as much to Boromir, but his father is not a noble Man. And Aragorn is right, that the Gap of Rohan is far too close to Isengard. But, by Ilúvatar, not Moria.

Tauriel does not expect to be asked her opinion, and thusly she is not disappointed when Mithrandir’s gaze skitters straight past her to Frodo. “Let the Ring-bearer decide,” the wizard proclaims, and Tauriel is not surprised when Frodo chooses Moria. He does not know, she wants to shriek, the things that dwell in the dark places.

More and more, Tauriel is quite sure she will never get home again. Never return to the woods so familiar and so well-loved, to her silver and gold babe toddling about on her plump legs, to Thranduil and the infinitesimal softening of his face whenever he saw her and his daughter walk towards him.

Never again.


	4. Thranduil and Amareth I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil is outwitted by what essentially equivocates to a four year old.

“Come now, child,” Thranduil coaxes, and holds out the spoon helplessly. “You must eat.”

“I don’t want to,” Amareth says stubbornly, and Thranduil manages not to curse out loud. He couldn’t remember Legolas being this difficult as a child, although perhaps he’d simply blocked it out of his memory from the trauma.

“Why not?” he asks, striving for patience but ending up somewhere near infuriated. “It’s good for you.” Shrewd green eyes peer up at him.

“Naneth said king wouldn’t know what’s good for him if it bit him on the –”

“That’s quite enough,” Thranduil snaps, fighting down a smile at the thought of Tauriel cursing in front of her beloved babe. “What would your father say, if he knew you were behaving like this?” Tauriel had told him before she left that sometimes this tactic would work with Amareth, although not always.

“I don’t have an ada,” the child mutters rebelliously, with a toss of her head almost completely a mimic of her mother’s. Thranduil suppresses a sigh.

“What if I said that if you eat this, you can have a cake later?” Amareth stills, looking up at Thranduil intently.

“Two cakes,” she bargains. “And you read me a story before bed.” Thranduil, suddenly aware he is facing a master negotiator, swallows down everything he’s ever thought about child raising.

“Very well,” he says finally, and Amareth smiles like her mother, like the sun coming out from behind a cloud.

The child reaches out and bops him lightly on the nose. “Good king,” she says. Thranduil watches, stunned, as the small girl finishes her meal without another complaint and skips from the table happily.

If the hair didn’t give it away, she is most definitely his child. The thought has a warmth spreading through him like sunlight easing away winter’s chill. It is worth anything, even the increasingly suspicious gazes he is earning from his subjects as they wonder exactly why their king is caring for the daughter of the disgraced and humbled Tauriel.

Thranduil does not know what to tell them. But the time is coming where he must say something, or strife will follow.


	5. Fellowship III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moria.

As they make their way towards the entrance of Khazad-dûm, Tauriel feels her heart grow heavier. Up ahead, Mithrandir is bent low to murmur in Frodo’s ear.

“What do you think they whisper of?” she asks Legolas, who is striding beside her on the path.

“It is not for us to know,” he replies, his gaze fixed firmly ahead. Tauriel frowns.

“You place a great deal of trust in Mithrandir, my lord,” she says, and then curses herself for the automatic formality when she sees Legolas’s lips firm into a hard line out of the corner of her eye. “Forgive me. Legolas. Has it been so long since we were comrades at arms?”

“Not so long,” he replies. “Yet much has changed. You have a daughter, now.” Tauriel stiffens, accustomed to tension at the mention alone of Amareth. “I have often wondered, Tauriel.”

“Yes?” she prods, when he does not seem inclined to go on, even as she does not like the direction this conversation is heading in. Legolas has never asked her who the father of her child is. Now would not be a good time to start. Tauriel climbs nimbly over a rock and looks back at her prince. “You have wondered?”

“Why my father allowed you to remain in his halls, after what happened with –”

“Kíli,” she prompts, when Legolas breaks off. “I did not return to my old life as though nothing had occurred, _mellon_.” The endearment falls from her lips without her conscious consent, but Legolas does not seem to mind. “I will never hold true power again within your father’s kingdom. For everything, there is a price.”

“Yes,” Legolas replies with uncharacteristic impatience, “but that is not all. Tauriel, you bore a child outside of marriage. You know what my father is like. He has mellowed, true, but there are some things…”

“Have you not noticed the mass exodus of our kind to the Grey Havens?” Tauriel demands. “Over half the inhabitants of the Greenwood have already left the woods to go across the sea. Your father’s court is not as it was. The days of our kind are over. Whether the next age is that of Men or of orcs, that is the only thing left to be decided. The reason I left my child in your father’s keeping, because I have no kin, and he is my friend.” More than that, although how could she ever tell Legolas of such things, knowing of the regard he had borne for her once?

“And you, Tauriel? Do you intend to go into the West?” For a moment, Tauriel stops her ascent towards Moria, and catches Legolas by the arm. Gimli harrumphs and moves past them, leaving them at the rear of the straggling line of companions.

“No, Legolas, I do not,” she replies. “Amareth and I will stay here, even if we are the last two elves left in Middle-earth. I do not think that will be the truth of it, though. There are many who will stay. Will you, Legolas?”

From the front of the party, Tauriel hears Gimli boom, “The walls of Moria!” Without another word, Legolas speeds off to where Mithrandir and Gimli have begun to tap on walls of stone. Tauriel casts a suspicious glance towards a murky pool of water as the moon comes out from behind a cloud, illuminating the runes carved into the wall.

Tauriel settles on a rock and observes the Company. Mithrandir stands before the door and chants, becoming increasingly frustrated. The hobbits take the opportunity to have supper. Gimli smokes his pipe, his face usually peaceful at the thought of entering his cousin’s halls. Tauriel does not have the heart to tell him on the fears that dwell within her own. Boromir sits, deep in thought, while as the hours wear on, eventually Sam and Aragorn unload the horse and send the beast back towards Imladris. More likely it will be eaten by an orc pack, Tauriel thinks with grim humour. She has had some experience with what orcs are willing to consume.

Frodo figures it out, in the end. Tauriel is ever expanding her opinion of the Ring-bearer. Despite the vast evil he carries, Frodo rarely complains, does his share of the chores without flinching, and she has heard several times now the story of the flight to Rivendell, of the grievous wound inflicted by the Witch King of Angmar. Evidently the young hobbit is clever, as well as sturdier than his youthful face and wide eyes would imply.

As she steps into the musty dark of Moria, Tauriel has the distinct feeling that something is not quite right. She hesitates on the threshold of the ancient stronghold, the hairs prickling up on the back of her neck, her ears straining to hear something over the rustle of the wind and the ripple of the water. Over the terrible sound of Gimli confirming what she has suspected for several days, the heartsick wail of one whose has found their kin dead and rotting, their hopes dashed into dust, there is a fell stillness on the air.

Tauriel backs away from the mines that have become a mausoleum. And so, when the tentacle emerges from the water and grabs Frodo by the ankle, Tauriel is the one closest, the first to dash after the hobbits and draw her swords to attack the fleshy appendage trying to drag the Ring-bearer into the water. From behind her she hears Sam shout for Aragorn as the hobbits hew at the tentacle, for a moment forgetting their fear of battle in their haste to defend their friend. Tauriel is proud of them, momentarily, before a dozen tentacles fly from the water, all reaching for Frodo.

Tauriel brushes past the hobbits and into the water. She has a sword in each hand and the many hours of training with Thranduil and Legolas and the guards take over. But she is only one Elf and she watches in horror as a tentacle scoops up Frodo, swinging him up into the sky, even as she slashes at the rest in a vain attempt to distract the monster from its prey. Boromir and Aragorn are in the water beside her, she hears the sing of Legolas’s bow, and a vast and hideous face appears from the water, its mouth a maw of endless teeth.

Aragorn saws off the tentacle clutching at Frodo, and the Ring-bearer lands safely in the Ranger’s arms. Tauriel does not look. She is too busy fighting, even as she hears Mithrandir bellow, “Into the mines!” She runs from the water and follows the rest into Moria, Legolas bringing up the rear. There is an unearthly roar and the thunderous sound of stone falling, and what little light had been coming in from the outside world is extinguished.

“We now have but one choice,” Mithrandir rumbles into the endless black, impenetrable even to Tauriel’s Elven eyes, and a moment later light flares from the wizard’s staff. “We must face the long dark of Moria. Be on your guard. There are older and fouler things than orcs in the deep place of the world.”

“What does he mean?” Pippin whispers. Tauriel sets a comforting hand on his shoulder as Mithrandir continues leading them down the path, through the rough caves.

“Quietly, now. It is a four day journey to the other side. Let us hope that our presence may go unnoticed.” Tauriel, at the back of the party with the Men, snorts.

“Might as well go asking for trouble,” she grumbles to herself, and is surprised to see Boromir’s quick grin out of the corner of her eye.

When they stop to camp that night, in a cavern that for once is not littered with the corpses of long dead Dwarrows, Tauriel chooses to sit beside Boromir as they gnaw on camp bread and hard cheese. Even after dinner, when she is patiently and lovingly tending to the bow Thranduil had given her years prior, she remains by his side.

“We have much in common, you and I,” she remarks to Boromir eventually, when her nerves have finally settled from the rhythmic and familiar activity of tending to her weapons. The Man, cleaning his sword, looks up at her in surprise.

“Is that so, my lady?” Tauriel tilts her head to the side.

“I am no lady. I am a lowly Silvan elf in service to the Elven King of the Greenwood. As elves go, I am the very lowest of my kind.” She sees Legolas wince out of the corner of her eye. “Do not think I am bothered by it,” she informs Boromir, when the Man’s face crumples in confusion. “We Silvans are known for our love of the stars, our skills in the forest, and parties that last for _weeks_.” She winks, and Boromir’s face softens into a smile. “I meant that you have grown up in the shadow of Mordor, in the dark evil of the Enemy. As did I, in the deepening gloom of my forests, in the days when the Necromancer dwelt in Dol Guldur.”

“The Necromancer?” Boromir asks. Tauriel tries for a smile, but cannot.

“That was what Sauron the Deceiver was called in my lands, before he assumed his true name once more,” she replies, and Boromir nods in understanding. “He was banished from the Greenwood, and the forests have recovered somewhat, but still do giant spiders spawn in our lands, and orcs come up from the old fortress time and again to attack travellers and cause trouble. In the name of the king, I have led many expeditions to try and root out the last of the filth that roams the Greenwood. And yet, they come. Until the Enemy is defeated for good, I do not think it will be possible to purge them from my home.” Tauriel looks up, to discover the entire Company watching her. “What?” she asks, and to a soul they all attempt to look busy and focussed on something other than her.

“You have felt yourself apart from the Company, as you were not truly selected to come on this quest.” Tauriel curses, but Mithrandir, who moves remarkably quietly for one of his advanced years, does not appear bothered by it. “Yet you have come for a greater purpose than duty, which spurs on several of those here. You came for love. It is the same selflessness of spirit that drove you to seek out Thranduil’s wife in Angmar, all those years ago.”

“It wasn’t selfless,” Tauriel replies tartly, but she can say no more before she is interrupted.

“What?” someone says, and Tauriel looks past Mithrandir to see Legolas standing just beyond the wizard, his face for once showing every drop of his confusion.

“It’s nothing, Legolas,” Tauriel attempts, but it is Mithrandir now who is surprised.

“Truly? The king never told you it was Tauriel who went to Angmar to find your mother’s body?” Mithrandir asks. Legolas just shakes his head, eyes wide. “Why not?” the wizard questions. Tauriel can feel herself turning beet red. This is not a conversation she wants to have right now. Or ever.

“Because I didn’t want him to know,” Tauriel mutters in the general direction of her feet.

“Why wasn’t it selfless, Tauriel?” Legolas asks, and when she lifts her gaze from the ground, she has never seen him so enraged.

“This is neither the time nor the place nor your business, _mellon_ ,” she snaps, but he will not be deterred.

“I want to know!” he argues. “Why would you try to find my mother? Why? What is she to you?” And in that moment Tauriel, who has been haunted for months now by a certainty that she will not survive the war to come, abruptly decides to stop lying.

“Because,” she says, and feels the whole Company fluttering on the edge of a knife, waiting for her to speak. “Thranduil was in torment. And the love I bore him then and now would not allow me to stand idly by while there was something I could do to heal him of his wounds.” Of all the things she might have said, she has the feeling that Legolas truly was not expecting this. His face goes slack, his eyes wide. She has not seen him so affected since the day Thranduil banished her from his realm.

“Amareth…” he says at last, and Tauriel steels herself against the blow to come. “She’s… she’s my…”

“She’s your sister,” Tauriel finishes for him. “And whatever blame or sin you choose to lay at my feet, do not tar my daughter with the same dark deeds. She is innocent in all of this.” Properly angry, she stalks past Legolas to where the path beckons beyond the cavern. “I came on this quest so your father would not lose the last thing he has left of your mother,” she hisses. “Not to be entertainment for the Company when you decide you cannot leave the past well enough alone.”

“Where are you going?” Aragorn demands. Tauriel whirls and fixes him with a beady glare.

“Not far,” she snaps. “Do not fear for my safety. You ought to fear for whatever comes across me.”


	6. Fellowship IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Further adventures in Moria.

Tauriel returns to the cavern hours later to find the Company asleep, save for Aragorn who is propped up against a wall with his pipe in his mouth. He nods wordlessly, gesturing to where her bedroll has been laid out neatly beside Legolas’s. What she is meant to fathom from that, Tauriel does not know, but the day has been long and full of horrors. It has been many hours since she slept, and she does not wish to argue with anyone anymore. She slips into her bedroll and is asleep almost as soon as her eyes are closed, even if her dreams are haunted by the hideous tentacled monster that had attacked them outside the entrance to Moria.

Tauriel wakes in the morning to find the Company packing things up around her, as though they have communally decided to let her sleep. She is grateful for it, even if her heart is sorrowful at the way Legolas avoids her gaze. Later, when they set off down the path, he makes sure he is just behind Mithrandir at the front of the group, as far away from Tauriel at the rear as he can possibly get. (The tense set of his shoulders remind her far too much of Thranduil.)

Around mid-morning they come across the mithril mines. Tauriel looks across the brightness of the silver locked in stone and wishes fervently that Kíli could be here to see this, his ancestral home, the beauty of it enough to rival the stars.

"Eh?" says Gimli in front of her. Tauriel flushes a little.

"Forgive me," she says. "Only I was thinking how Kíli would have loved to see this place." Gimli, his eyes gimlet bright in the darkness, turns his head.

"I never knew whether to believe the rumours," he says conversationally. "An Elf maid in love with a Dwarven prince? Unnatural."

"It strains credulity, at that," Tauriel agrees as they continue on, utterly unoffended by his frankness.

"You’re right, though. Both the princes would have begged their uncle to see this, had any of them lived." There is a sadness to Gimli’s voice that reminds her that he was Kíli’s distant cousin, after a fashion.

Another day passes down in the dark. That night the heavy blackness is deeper still, more oppressive, the air thicker and more cloying the further they move into the mines. Tauriel, accustomed as she was to the heavy stink of Mirkwood as it had been, is not so affected, but she can see the hobbits crinkle up their noses as they breathe.

On the morning of the fourth day, the day they are due to reach the city proper of Dwarrowdelf, they come to a fork in the way that veers off in three different directions. As Mithrandir contemplates the path to take, Tauriel peers over the edge and considers the scrawny, bent creature currently stalking them.

"Do you see it?" she asks Frodo, pointing out the thing as it clambers up the stone. Frodo is horrified.

"What is it?" he asks. Tauriel shrugs.

"Ask Mithrandir. I couldn’t tell you what it is." Shamelessly, she eavesdrops on the conversation the hobbit and wizard have. Amidst Mithrandir’s usual rhetoric, she gathers a few nuggets of valuable information, as well as a new level of sorrow in her heart for the tormented and abused creatures of the world.

The long climb down a winding stair is well worth the moment Tauriel steps out into the vast and beautiful city. Long abandoned and inhabited by orc filth, it still possesses the regal majesty it must have had since the days of Durin the Deathless.

Gimli spots a small antechamber and runs towards it. Tauriel follows, her fingers itching as she grips her bow. Something here is not right.

Tauriel remains silent as Mithrandir translates the symbols on the grave. Neither does she speak when Mithrandir begins to read aloud from the book.

Tauriel crosses the room to peer out the door. It inadvertently brings her close to Legolas for the first time in days. She stands beside him, mute. She will not be the first to speak.

"You are angry with me," he murmurs, quietly enough that only her sharp Elven hearing can detect him.

"I will always stand beside you, _mellon_ ," she replies. "You may doubt the course of the sun or the turn of the seasons, but never that. I did not mean to –"

A hideous crashing noise makes her head whip around. Pippin has accidently pushed a corpse down one of the mine shafts. The noise seems to go on forever, the whole Company on tenterhooks, waiting with bated breath to see if the sound will bring foes. Silence reigns, for long enough that the Company breathes a sigh of relief and Mithrandir relaxes enough to begin haranguing Pippin.

Inevitably, the drums start. A wild, ululating howl follows, and Tauriel peers out the door only to yank her head back as two arrows bury themselves in the ancient wood. Between the three of them, she, Aragorn and Boromir force the door shut, the wood shuddering as a rasping roar fills the air. "They have a cave troll," Boromir says grimly as the two Men shore up the door with old weapons, the hobbits crowding around Gandalf, Gimli clambering onto the tomb with a growl and fire in his eyes.

Tauriel nocks an arrow to her bow and waits. The inner stillness she always feels in battle begins in her core and filters all the way out to her extremities. If today is to be the day, then there is little she can do about it, except what she came here to do: protect Legolas, and protect the Fellowship, or die in the attempt.

The wood splinters, and calmly she shoots through the gap, aiming for throats and eyes. When the door gives way and the orcs begin to hurtle through, Tauriel allows herself one last arrow before holstering her bow and drawing her twin swords from their scabbard on her back. The first orc she disembowels with a swipe of her left hand, the second loses an arm, and the third has its throat cut before it even notices it has fell to the floor. After that Tauriel does not pay attention. She is instinct given flesh, she is –

The battle rages around her, and she’s forgotten over time how _big_ cave trolls are. It’s been sixty years since the Battle of the Five Armies, and even then she hadn’t had much time to fight them, what with Angmar and Bolg and Kíli. The great ugly beast tries to snatch at the hobbits with its enormous hands but they are too fast and too small for it. Tauriel focusses on the orcs and lets the males of the Company handle the troll. Between the ten of them, the battle ends rather quickly. Out of the corner of her eye Tauriel sees Frodo skewered by the troll and weeps inwardly, only to discover the hobbit wears a mithril shirt under his travelling clothes.

"To the Bridge of Khazad-dûm," Mithrandir says urgently, and for once Tauriel does not have the urge to complain. Fleeing back into the main hall, the Company runs, but they are not fast enough to escape the vast horde of orcs, surrounding them in the darkness, leering and grinning with their ruined mouths. Her premonition had not been incorrect, then. Today is the day. All she can hope to do is take as many of them with her as possible.

A roar sounds, and the orcs scatter, as a fell light begins to gather at one end of the hall. "What is this new devilry?" Boromir asks, and Tauriel hopes he is not addressing her, for she cannot speak. Long seconds tick by, before Mithrandir speaks.

"A Balrog," he says, and ice trickles through Tauriel, fear humming in her veins. She looks to her side, and sees on Legolas’s face the same mute terror she is certain must be on her own. "A demon of the ancient world." That’s one way to put it, Tauriel thinks slightly hysterically. "This foe is beyond any of you. Run!"

Tauriel is quite happy to do so. They flee through the great hall towards the Bridge. Boromir comes to the stairs first and almost falls forward into the abyss, if not for Legolas pulling him back. "Lead them on, Aragorn," Tauriel hears Mithrandir say, and looks back to see the wizard sweating, an unfamiliar light of fear in his eyes. On and on, down the stairs until they come to a break in the stone.

Legolas jumps nimbly over the gap; Tauriel follows him without thought. When arrows start to sling from the sky, she begins to shoot at the orcs firing them. Legolas urges Mithrandir across; Boromir tucks a hobbit under each arm and lurches them across the void. Aragorn lifts Sam bodily and throws him across; when he turns to Gimli to do the same, the dwarf growls, "Nobody tosses a dwarf!" and jumps. Tauriel fights down a smile when Legolas saves him, literally by the skin of his beard, even as the world is turning to madness around them

More stone crumbles, and the Ring-bearer (why is it always Frodo, Tauriel can’t help but wonder) and Aragorn are left on the other side of a gap far too wide to jump. Folk have been crossing this way for millennia, Tauriel thinks crossly, yet it is us who are subject to the whole place falling apart.

Frodo and Aragorn make it across, and they reach the Bridge. Tauriel looks back, only to see Mithrandir pause in the centre of the thin stone, as a horned, leering face comes out of the darkness, wreathed in flame. Durin’s Bane. The rumours of the unknown horror that lurked in Moria had not done the Balrog justice.

"You cannot pass!" Mithrandir roars, sword and staff raised. "I am a servant of the Secret Fire, wielder of the flame of Anor. The dark fire will not avail you, flame of Udûn!" The creature does not speak, but instead makes itself an immense sword of fire, which when struck by Glamdring falls into ash. "Go back to the shadow." It lays a cloven hoof on the Bridge and forms a whip out of ribbons of flame.

"You shall not pass!" Mithrandir bellows, and for a moment the creature seems repelled. Tauriel’s heart is in her throat as the Bridge crumbles under the weight of Durin’s Bane, and it falls down into the darkness. Just when she thinks Mithrandir may have escaped with his life, the lasso of flame binds itself around his ankle and pulls him down into the void.

"Fly, you fools!"

And is gone.

 

The daylight outside the caves makes Tauriel’s eyes water, but the fresh air is infinitely welcome. The Company is scattered on the stones, the hobbits desolate, the Men watchful. Legolas is scanning the horizon and even Gimli looks mournful.

Tauriel watches them. She does not have the attachment to Mithrandir that the hobbits or indeed the rest of the Company do. Too well did she perceive his machinations some sixty years ago, surrounding the time when Erebor was reclaimed. Yet she is sorrowful, that he is dead, that the hobbits are so distraught. When Aragorn orders them to get the hobbits up, she does so, if only because he is now their default leader, and because she sees the sense in what he says. More than anything, Tauriel feels drained, weary to her very bones, as though this quest is sapping her of her _fëa_ , little by little.

The Fellowship passes through Dimrill Dale, what the Dwarrows call Azanulbizar, and Gimli calls Frodo and Sam to him. Tauriel watches them disappear into the distance.

_"You will like this, since you hold the stars in such high regard. There is a lake in Azanulbizar, near Khazad-dûm, or what you would call Moria, I suppose. It is called the Mirrormere, or Kheled-zâram in the tongue of my fathers. No matter day or night, you can see Durin’s Crown reflected in the water."_

The words echo up to Tauriel from beyond the years, and she has a sudden fierce desire to see the stars that Kíli had spoken of. Eyeing the disappearing figures in the distance, she chases after them.

 


	7. Fellowship V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lothlórien.

Tauriel feels the welcoming shade of the woods of Lothlórien fall over her, comforting as the arm of a comrade draped over her shoulder. The Fellowship had passed the river of Celebrant and Cerin Amroth earlier in the day, where Haldir and his Wardens had found them. Surrounded by bows on all sides, they had been escorted further into the depths of the woods. Tauriel observes Aragorn arguing heatedly in Sindarin with the Wardens’ leader, occasionally gesturing furiously in his frustration. Haldir does not seem inclined to budge. “Mae govannen, Legolas Thranduilion,” the Marchwarden had said. To Tauriel he had spared a single, sharp glance, as if the rumours about the Elven King’s former guard captain had reached even the isolation of Lothlórien.

Tauriel had looked away from the arguing Man and Elf, only to hear Boromir say softly, “Gandalf’s death was not in vain, nor would he have you give up hope. You carry a heavy burden, Frodo. Don’t carry the weight of the dead.” When Frodo looks over to her, Tauriel gives him an encouraging smile.

“You will follow me,” Haldir says. Evidently, Aragorn has convinced him.

The Company follows the wardens of Lothlórien to Caras Galadhon. Even Tauriel has to muffle her gasp of surprised delight at the sight of the Golden Wood. It will never be the Greenwood, the home of her heart, but there is loveliness here too, in the woods so long protected by the Lady Galadriel and her powers.

Haldir leads them up and around the vast trees, presumably to the Lord and Lady of Lothlórien. When Celeborn and Galadriel descend the stairs, Tauriel bows her head in respect. She has never been sent to Lothlórien in the course of her duties as guard captain, although she had seen them both attend the funeral of Thranduil’s queen. They had been honoured guests of the king, although one as low as she had never been permitted to officially meet them. Yet the Lady of the Wood had found her all the same, training in the old guards’ courtyard at dawn.

_“You have some skill with a blade,” a soft, feminine voice had murmured, as Tauriel completed a complicated drill with her twin swords. Tauriel had turned to see a lovely female Elf all in white regarding her from just beyond the courtyard._

_“Thank you,” Tauriel had replied. She had tried to keep eye contact with the stranger, and had failed. “Do you require assistance, my lady?” Galadriel had smiled, all enigma and fey beauty, and had declined._

_“I am familiar with the way back to my quarters,” she had said. “Farewell, forest-daughter. We will meet again.”_

_Tauriel had watched her go, utterly bewildered._

Perhaps Galadriel had foreseen this, that Tauriel would take matters into her own hands and accompany the Company on their journey.

In the time that Tauriel had been ruminating on the past, the Fellowship have been dismissed from the presence of the rulers of Lothlórien. Tauriel follows Legolas to the place allocated to the Fellowship to sleep. The air hums with the voices of hundreds of Elves, raised in lament to Mithrandir.

“What do they say of him?” Merry asks. Legolas turns away.

“I have not the heart to tell you. For me the grief is still too near.” Tauriel, settled on her bedroll, would have told the hobbit if he had wished it, but Merry does not ask her. Aragorn looks up from cleaning his sword, but he too says nothing.

“I bet they don’t mention his fireworks. There should be a verse about them.” Sam stands up, puffing out his chest. ““The finest rockets ever seen; they burst in stars of blue and green, or after thunder, silver showers…

Aragorn shoves Gimli; Tauriel bites down a smile.

“Came falling like a…rain of flowers,” Sam finishes. “Oh, that doesn’t do them justice by a long road,” he grumbles. Tauriel pats him on the shoulder as Aragorn wanders over to where Boromir sits alone.

“I rather liked it,” Tauriel tells him, and falls asleep to the mournful singing of the Lothlórien Elves.

 

“I have been expecting you,” Galadriel says without turning her head. Tauriel freezes on the spot. Still, why should Galadriel not be expecting her, when it was the Lady herself who had summoned her hence? The gravity of her voice makes it sound as though Galadriel has been expecting her much longer than just today. “You have much to explain, daughter of the forest.”

“What would you like to know?” Tauriel inquires, as she steps into Galadriel’s garden. “I imagine much of it you can divine without my contribution.”

“Nevertheless, I would hear it from your own lips. You were not selected to be one of the Nine Walkers, yet here you stand. The Fellowship has accepted you as one of their own, for the most part. You have changed fate, forest-daughter. By your actions either good or ill may come to Middle-earth, and even I cannot foresee all ends.”

“You are saying I should have stayed in the Greenwood,” Tauriel says sharply. “That I should have remained with my daughter and let the world pass me by. To allow darkness to swallow the earth or be defeated by the bold and mighty, but to have no hand in it myself. You are a mother. Would you have not moved sky and stars to defend your child?”

“Indeed I would,” Galadriel replies, and her voice is as cold as a winter wind. “Yet she passed from this world all the same. I could not prevent that.”

“And I may be unable to prevent the Enemy from taking dominion over Middle-earth. But while there is blood in my veins and breath in my lungs, I will do all I can to ensure the world my child inherits will not be a smoking ruin.” Tauriel endures Galadriel gazing at her intently, for all the intensity of the Lady of the Wood’s gaze feels as though her skin is about to crawl off of her bones.

“I believe we understand one another, Tauriel of the Greenwood,” Galadriel says finally. With one elegant hand, she reaches into her robes and withdraws a tightly folded square of parchment. “A missive for you, from the Greenwood. It reached us only three days ago.” Tauriel, mute, stares down at the letter, her heart in her throat.

When she feels herself capable of speech, she says stiffly, “My thanks, my lady.” Galadriel inclines her head, and Tauriel cannot get away quick enough to read her treasure, hovering over it in a corridor as a miser atop her hoard, devouring the words with greedy eyes.

_To Tauriel of the Greenwood, from Thranduil King of the Woodland Realm, Greetings,_

_I trust this missive finds you well and intent upon your purpose. Our mutual acquaintance remains well and continues to ask after you daily. Little has changed since your departure, although we continue to be raided almost weekly. Extend my regards to the Lord and Lady of Lothlórien and to my heir. Your return is eagerly anticipated among your comrades amongst the guard, and among others, too._

_I enclose a note from our mutual acquaintance._

_Thranduil, King of the Woodland Realm._

Tauriel smiles even as tears prick at her eyes. There are no words of love, no vows to wear her handkerchief beside his heart forevermore if she is slain. Yet she can read between the lines, find the words that Thranduil does not dare to commit to paper or to even admit aloud. Tenderly, she refolds the paper and tucks it into her pocket, and turns her attention to the other note.

_Dear Naneth,_

_Please come home soon I miss you._

_Love,_

_Ama_

The note is blotchy and misspelled, the child’s handwriting big and slanting. Yet it is the loveliest thing Tauriel can remember seeing since she embarked for Imladris. She finds a small alcove to tuck herself away in, and wipes the tears from her eyes until no more fall. But she makes sure to stay away from the others until all signs of her weeping have cleared from her face. She cannot afford to appear weak before the Fellowship, even though many of her male counterparts have already shed tears on this journey. Boromir, Gimli, the hobbits. Yet affairs are not the same for her as they are for the males. Tauriel is well aware that she is the only female amongst the Company; that, if she had not taken matters into her own hands, there would be none who were not male amongst the Fellowship. She must give them no reason to think she is not as capable as the Men, as Legolas and Gimli and even the hobbits.

By the time Tauriel returns to the place where the Fellowship sleep, she is the only one left awake. Even Frodo has submitted to the demands of his body and given into slumber. She slips into her bedroll, but sleep is a long time in coming, and she does not dream.

 

The Fellowship tarries longer in Lothlórien than Tauriel would have preferred. She says as much to Aragorn.

“Every day we delay is a day for Sauron to rally his forces,” she argues. “Every day more foul creatures spill forth from their hiding places to wreak havoc. We cannot delay.”

Aragorn’s eyes are as are still as deep pools, although Tauriel senses a growing concern behind the stern face that matches her own. “None of us will survive the journey to Mordor without sufficient rest,” he replies. “We will not tarry here a moment longer than necessary.” Tauriel fixes him with the sharp glare she has learned from Thranduil, and is gratified to see the Man squirm just a little.

Still, she sees the Fellowship improve over time. She watches the hobbits regain the weight they have lost from many week of walking and travel rations. She sees Legolas’ face smooth once more into the calmness she remembers from the days when he dwelt in Thranduil’s halls, although he still refuses to speak of the knowledge he gained in Moria. Tauriel is not inclined to press the issue. For the Men’s part, they appear soothed by the weeks of serenity within the Golden Wood, and as for Gimli, he is infatuated with Galadriel. Tauriel, recalling his comments about the ‘sorceress’, is endlessly amused.

For her part, she duels every guard and warden who live in Caras Galadhon that will practise with her. She wins most of them, bested only by Haldir and a handful of others. She tutors the hobbits further in swordplay and drafts a dozen letters back to Thranduil and Amareth, letters she has no way of sending. Galadriel informs her that Thranduil’s missive was born by a courier on his way to Imladris. “It is not a direct path to Imladris, to come through Lothlórien,” Tauriel had replied, bewildered. Galadriel’s eyes had glimmered with humour, as though Tauriel is being remarkably dense.

“Indeed not,” she had replied. “Almost as if someone had invented a reason to send a courier around Middle-earth, for the purpose of strewing letters anywhere that the letters’ intended recipient might go.”

Tauriel had not said a word, although she had flushed crimson to the points of her ears, and Galadriel had smiled like she knew a secret.

“I wish to give you a gift,” Galadriel had added. Tauriel had protested.

“My lady, no. What you have given me is more than enough.” But Galadriel had waved her protests away.

“That was not truly from me,” she had replied. “You are as difficult as Master Gimli to find a present for.” Tauriel had shrugged.

“Give me something to take home to Amareth, if it please you, my lady.” And Tauriel had left it at that.

 

“I have discovered what I will grant you,” Galadriel announces when Tauriel attends her in her garden, some three days before the Fellowship is due to depart. “I will send a courier to the Greenwood, with a letter for your daughter.” Tauriel’s mouth falls open in a very unattractive gape, and it is all she can do not to hug the other Elf. Later that evening, her pen heavy with ink and a blank page before her, Tauriel cannot think what to write. For a long time, she does not know what to say. The words come, eventually, and the next day Tauriel hands the sealed letter to Galadriel with shaking hands.

“I do not know how to thank you,” she tells the Lady of the Wood. Galadriel’s eyes are grave.

“It is I who should thank you. You have left your home, your daughter, your king, all to assist the Ring-bearer in his task. You ask for neither thanks nor glory, although you shall have both, by the end.” Tauriel shrugs.

“I would prefer to escape this adventure with my life. I would trade all the thanks and glory in the world, for that.” She is not heartened by the way Galadriel casts her eyes away and will say no more.

On the morning they are to depart, Tauriel farewells the friends she has made amongst the Lothlórien Elves. Most of them being of Silvan descent, she has much in common with them, and they are sad to see her go. Galadriel surprises her with a small toy horse, barely bigger than her hand, for Amareth; it is small enough that it will not be a toil to bear on the journey. “And for you, forest-daughter,” Galadriel proclaims, “a token.” It is a small, round blue stone, flat, carved with Sindarin. “For luck,” Galadriel tells her, and Tauriel has to look away hastily to banish tears. A rune stone, or as close to one as Elves can make. She does not know how Galadriel knows of such a thing, or why it would mean so much to Tauriel, but she is grateful all the same.

“Thank you,” Tauriel tells her, and means it.

The Fellowship begins to sail their way down the Anduin, and Tauriel clasps her fingers around the rune stone, wrapped in Thranduil and Amareth’s notes. They are tucked into a pocket of her new cloak, safe from prying eyes, and as the boats float further down the river, Tauriel does not allow herself to be afraid.


	8. Fellowship VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Breaking of the Fellowship.

The Company travels slowly down the Anduin. For Tauriel, the boats are a new experience, and not altogether a pleasant one. Still, she is not so badly off as Gimli, who loathes the water, and the hobbits, particularly Frodo, whose parents died boating on the Brandywine River. “It is not so bad,” Tauriel counsels them. “Let me tell you how the Company of Thorin Oakenshield escaped the halls of the Elven King.” It is a tale that Gimli and perhaps Frodo has heard before, but Merry and Pippin enjoy it all the same; they laugh and gasp at all the right parts, and by the end even Frodo is smiling.

“It is not for Elves to make light of the King under the Mountain,” Gimli informs her later, very stiffly, when they are making camp for the night. Tauriel turns to him in surprise.

“I was not,” she replies. “It was meant to cheer them, not heap dishonour on the ingenuity of your kin. Such a manner of escape would never occur to Elves.”

Gimli makes a harrumphing noise, but seems appeased. Nearby Aragorn and Boromir are quietly arguing; Tauriel hears a growl of: “… Ring within a hundred leagues of your city!” She looks away hastily, and gets up to where Legolas is peering at what little he can see of the horizon.

“Your father sends his regards,” she says quietly, because Thranduil has commanded her and she obeys. She might be his lover, but she is also his servant. “He sent a letter to me, in Lothlórien, from Amareth.”

“Do you remember my father from before you were banished?” Legolas asks, apropos of nothing. Tauriel does not know what to say, but perhaps words are not necessary, for Legolas continues. “He was cold. Icy, like the wind in the depths of winter. He had not embraced me for time beyond measure.”

“I’m aware,” Tauriel says slowly.

“And then, he changed. He became something of the father I remembered, from when my mother was alive. I thought it was losing so many of our people, in the Battle of the Five Armies. That the cost of that victory had reminded him of what it was to truly live. But I was mistaken. It was not the Battle at all. It was you.”

For long minutes, Tauriel does not reply. “After Kíli died,” she begins cautiously, “I was a ruin. I could not conceive of enduring my grief anywhere but in the Greenwood. I sought permission from the King to return to his halls. He was… kind to me, kinder than I deserved, after the words I had spoken to him. Slowly, the world became bearable to me again. I went away for a time, I fought with you and the Dúnedain, do you recall?” At his nod, Tauriel takes heart. “I was away longer than I intended. To seek forgiveness for breaking my promise, I bargained from Dain Ironfoot the White Gems of Lasgalen. And from there…” Tauriel shrugs. “The rest came easily.”

“Easily?” Legolas asks, with a hint of wickedness in his eyes and a faint smile in the corner of his mouth. “Nothing regarding my father could ever be considered _easy_.” Tauriel, heartened further by his humour, claps him on the shoulder.

“Less difficult, then,” she replies, and feels a weight lift from her at the clearing of the air between her comrade and herself. Tauriel sleeps well that night, even with the threat of Mordor hanging over her.

The next morning, they come to the Argonath, and land the boats on the bank. Tauriel stands beside Legolas; breathes the air, feels the distant rumble of a hundred monstrous footsteps. “Do you feel it?” Legolas asks her without looking away from the tangle of the forest.

“Yes,” Tauriel replies. Without another word Legolas catches Aragorn by the arm.

“We should leave now,” he tells the Man. Aragorn pulls his arm free.

“No,” he replies. “Orcs patrol the eastern shore. We must wait for cover of darkness.” Tauriel furrows her brow, listening harder. Over the chatter of the hobbits and the deep rumble of Gimli, there is a drone to the air that she cannot quite pin down.

“It is not the eastern shore that worries me. A shadow and a threat has been growing in my mind. Something draws near. I can feel it.” Legolas looks past Aragorn. “Tauriel feels the same.” Tauriel looks up.

“Tauriel?” Aragorn asks. As little as she desires to become involved in this conversation, perhaps it is time.

“I have not tried to persuade you, Aragorn,” she says. “I am well aware you did not ask for me to accompany you on this quest, nor am I sanctioned by Lord Elrond to aid you in your task. I will be a sword, a bow, a watcher in the night, but I will only participate in the leadership of this quest if you ask.”

“I am asking,” says the Man, and Tauriel relaxes just a trifle. All this time on the quest, and she has not known what to make of Isildur’s heir. The boy she remembers from the Imladris of yesteryear cannot be found in the grim Man the Ranger has become. But perhaps they understand one another, a little.

“Something foul comes towards us. Even now it approaches.”

“Where’s Frodo?” Merry asks, returning with an armful of firewood. And Tauriel _knows_.

 

Tauriel pelts through the woods, Legolas only a few feet away. For the difference in the woods and the years that have passed, she could be new to the fight again, running through the Greenwood with Legolas at her side. They hear the sounds of combat before they see it; Tauriel is still reaching for an arrow when Legolas puts the first to the string, and even now she marvels at the depth of his skill. As they rush towards the sounds of clashing steel and inhuman roars, Gimli joins them, axe already in hand, only to come across Aragorn alone defending himself against a contingent of orcs.

“Aragorn, go!” Legolas shouts, and the Man takes off at a run, still slaying orcs even as he searches for their hobbits. Between the three of them, she, Legolas and Gimli have no issue with the remaining foes. Tauriel pursues the orcs down the hill, switching from her bow to her twin swords when they move into closer quarters. Only when she hears a clear horn call through the trees does she pause.

“The Horn of Gondor,” Legolas says.

“Boromir!” Aragorn says, and sprints off through the trees. Along the way they come across a small squadron of orcs, cut off from the rest of their brigade. Aragorn goes ahead while she, Gimli, and Legolas handle the rest. By the time they make their way to Boromir, he has fallen.

 

They put Boromir into a boat with the Horn of Gondor by his side and his sword on his breast. Tauriel blinks back tears as Legolas and Aragorn push it gently out to float down the Anduin, towards the waterfall. “We will not see the White City together, my friend,” Tauriel says sadly, and to her surprise it is Aragorn who puts a hand comfortingly on her shoulder. Gimli stands with his axe in front of him, keeping vigil until the boat falls out of sight.

“Hurry! Frodo and Sam have reached the eastern shore,” Legolas says, but Tauriel puts a hand on his arm, shaking her head. Legolas looks past her to Aragorn.

“He means not to follow them,” Tauriel murmurs. Aragorn sends her a quick glance of gratitude, which has had looking away quickly. She and Aragorn have spent the quest at silent loggerheads with one another ever since Mithrandir fell from the Bridge of Khazad-dûm. Both instinctive leaders, both stubborn and more than a little proud. Yet where amongst Elves Tauriel can be a captain of the guard, amongst Men she has never been much more than a pretty face. Granted, there have been exceptions amongst Men who see her for what she truly is, and certainly Aragorn has never fallen prey to the delusion that she is incapable of either attack or defence. But not for nothing had no females among Men or Elves or Dwarrows been chosen to join the Fellowship. Tauriel is keenly aware of this.

“Frodo’s fate is no longer in our hands,” Aragorn says.

“Then it has all been in vain,” Gimli says heavily, coming closer. “The Fellowship has failed.”

Aragorn reaches out, and places a hand on each of Legolas’s and Gimli’s shoulders, and then realises he has not a third to place on Tauriel’s. He looks at her helplessly, and in spite of the gravity of the moment, Tauriel feels her lips twitch in spite of herself. She stretches out her hand and grips Aragorn’s shoulder firmly; the last remaining members of the Fellowship, united, and her, one of them at last.

“Not if we hold true to each other.” Tauriel feels a wild, reckless smile spread over her face. She feels, in this moment, more the half-wild child of the Greenwood she was before she became a guard in the King’s service. “We will not abandon Merry and Pippin to torment and death,” Aragorn continues. “Not while we have strength left.” He turns and retrieves his dagger from a corpse, and turns back to his comrades. “Leave all that can be spared behind. We travel light. Let’s hunt some Orc.”

Gimli is the first to follow Aragorn into the forest. Legolas goes after him, and Tauriel spares a moment and a brief prayer for Sam and Frodo, so far away, and going farther.

And then she turns, and follows her brothers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To all my readers who liked To The Morning and continue on with this story, thank you! Lovely to see you again.
> 
> This continues to be different from its predecessor both thematically and in content. But never fear, there will be plenty of Tauriel/Thranduil goodness later in the fic.
> 
> This story is by no means finished yet, so do let me know what you think.


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